


Mulled Wine

by insistentbass



Series: Your Mouth To My Heart [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Feelings, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mulled wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:29:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27595523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insistentbass/pseuds/insistentbass
Summary: 'Somehow, this is his reality now, after years of loss and missed chances. Accepting happiness after such a lifetime is oddly strenuous. But hell, he’s trying.'
Relationships: Molly Hooper/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Your Mouth To My Heart [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2001055
Comments: 18
Kudos: 102





	Mulled Wine

**Author's Note:**

> This is as fluffy as I get. I was drinking hot chocolate and thinking about Christmas. What can I say, 2020 has been a ride.
> 
> Part of a series, but can easily be read as a standalone.

John can’t remember the last time they had Christmas at Baker Street. Well, he can. But it seems so long ago, and so foreign in his memory, that it could have happened to an entirely separate person.

Things are all a bit different now. Mrs Hudson has decorated the flat, and Sherlock let her. Tinsel hangs on every bit of wall space imaginable, the tree tall and real, so obnoxiously big that John had been required to saw the top off. It’s crammed full of ornaments, with a dodgy looking angel on the top, that from the smell of it may have been a family heirloom. Molly and Greg are wearing matching jumpers. They’re both smiling to such a degree it would be irritating if it weren’t so deserved. Rosie is a welcome addition, celebrating her fourth Christmas with an enthusiasm that John doesn’t recall ever having. And Sherlock.

Sherlock is playing his Stradivarius, soft and comforting, eyes barely wavering from John’s own.

It’s really too perfect. It shouldn’t be allowed to be this perfect, in fact.

Gentle clapping fills the room and John realises the music has stopped. He’s distracted. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wonders when things are going to go wrong. What tragedy is about to occur, what unexpected misery is about to ruin this moment? Because there’s not been a period of time this long in a while where something hasn’t been terrible. Here he is, mulled wine in his mug, sitting in his chair, surrounded by people he loves, watching his beautiful child dance around the living room to exquisitely played violin.

“Top up, anyone?” Greg asks, waving his empty mug in the air.

The mulled wine was actually Sherlock’s idea, and it’s going down well. John had been to Tesco to buy the booze and various fruits Sherlock had instructed him to get, travelling down the aisles three times to find cloves. Then he’d watched the man hunched over a large pot, carefully adding the spices and slices of orange like a delicious experiment, the chemistry filling the flat with warmth. He’d even been allowed to get rid of several ‘useless’ specimens that were stored in the back of the fridge – John’s sure one of them was a human spleen but he didn’t ask – in order to make room for the cheese, olives and mini pies. It was a legitimate Christmas miracle to have proper food on the shelves.

They all hum and nod for another. Greg collects their mugs and Molly follows him into the kitchen, closely shadowed by Mrs Hudson, muttering something about getting too drunk to get down the stairs.

John’s phone buzzes gently in his pocket. He flips it open. Ah, here we go. Right on cue, it’s Harry.

“You should answer her” Sherlock says, placing his violin carefully back into its case with his back to John.

There are a whole bunch of reasons he could give to counter that argument, a well-rehearsed set of excuses. Except Sherlock’s right, he should reply. It’s bloody Christmas, and he doesn’t have enough family left to hold grudges against anymore. John clears his throat, throws Sherlock an exasperated look and thumbs out a reply - standard season’s greetings, hope you’re well, talk again probably next Christmas.

He’s about to shove his phone back into his pocket, but Sherlock plucks it out of his hand with clever fingers before he has a chance.

“Good, now that’s done-” Sherlock lifts up the empty skull on the fireplace and places the offending article underneath it. “There.”

“Billy could have just asked if he needed to make a call” John says, shifting in his seat.

He raises a questioning eyebrow at Sherlock, who throws himself into his chair opposite John, squirming slightly in the jumper Mrs Hudson has made him wear. It’s forest green with tiny stitched baubles and made of wool. John scratches the phantom itch on his own arm, as Sherlock considers him carefully.

“You were happy two minutes ago” Sherlock explains, throwing a half grin at Rosie who has given up dancing in exchange for falling asleep on the floor.

“Oh, I was?”

Sherlock makes it sound as if the occurrence is rare. John supposes it probably is. Despite trying to make a more conscious effort to not be completely miserable all the time, he slips up now and again. Bridging that gap between complacent numbness and genuine happiness proves difficult in general. There have been more frequently occurring moments over the last twelve months though, everything seems a bit easier since waltzing and darkened hotel rooms.

“You were smiling. It was pleasant.” Sherlock comments, resting his chin on his thumb and forefinger as he observes.

“Well, I aim to please”

John’s glad everyone else is in the kitchen and Rosie is in another world entirely. It gives him a precious few minutes to just look at Sherlock and get lost there, in the rare sight of him in something other than a suit, the firelight reflecting in the depths of his pupils. Those eyes flick up and down John’s torso and then rest on his lips, almost predatory.

“It makes me want to kiss you” Sherlock says.

It’s been over a year since Sussex and the wedding and moonlight on Sherlock’s pale skin. They’ve fought and reconciled, pissed each other off and made each other laugh, done dirty things to each other in the corridor downstairs at two in the morning and showered together more than once. It’s been twelve months of firsts and almost lasts, revelations about things they already knew. Yet John still can’t believe, after all this time, that Sherlock wants to kiss him. Most days he still does not feel deserving.

Somehow, he is though. Somehow, this is his reality now, after years of loss and missed chances. Accepting happiness after such a lifetime is oddly strenuous. But hell, he’s trying.

“Suppose you better had then”

Sherlock leans forward, and John wonders when exactly their chairs got so close. They weren’t always like this, mere feet away. But now they are bumping knees with hardly any effort at all, John using Sherlock’s elbow to steady himself as their mouths meet.

The public display of affection is uncommon, but John doesn’t much care. Hot booze was definitely a good idea, Sherlock’s tongue tastes like cinnamon and sweetened fruit, and fuck, it’s so good he wishes everyone would go home immediately. He feels the sharps of Sherlock’s knuckles against his cheek, something John has noticed he only does when it’s a particularly tender kiss. It’s sickeningly endearing and only makes him pray further for an empty flat.

He darts out his tongue and teases his teeth against Sherlock’s bottom lip, pushing his luck until he hears that low deep sound from the back of Sherlock’s throat that John knows to be a warning. The caveat to losing control, usually resulting in John’s back against a wall and Sherlock’s composure falling to the floor like his clothes. Those are some of the moments he craves most. The dark hours where they play with the boundaries of power until one of them ends up with knees on the kitchen floor. It’s second only to times like this, where Sherlock is soft and pliable and disappearing against his touch.

“Get a room you two!” Greg’s laughing and John wishes they would all sod off.

“We’ve got one, you’re in it” He mutters against Sherlock’s lips.

Sherlock draws away with a smirk, knuckles touching one last time to John’s cheek before he sits back into his chair again. The lingering look in the shadows of his face whispers of promise, and John has to clear his throat to shake the lewd thoughts from his head.

“I’ll pop this one to bed” Molly says, gently waking Rosie’s snoozing form off the floor and ushering her up the stairs.

John mouths a thank you and gets up to give Mrs Hudson his chair, moving to stand beside Sherlock’s instead, an arm resting along the back of it. Their pseudo housekeeper come surrogate mother looks contently tipsy, cheeks a warm pink. John considers her for a moment and realises how much older she looks, her frame more fragile than the year before and not befitting someone with such a firey spirit. He’s suddenly a little sad, and his hand drifts subconsciously to Sherlock’s shoulder for support. Sherlock glances up at him and offers a small understanding smile, briefly covering John’s hand with his.

“Out like a light” Molly confirms, closing the door gently behind her so as not to wake the sleeping child upstairs.

Molly leans into Greg’s outstretched arm where he’s stood next to the fireplace, and they all fall quiet for a few moments. The crackle of the fire soothes them into a comfortable silence, broken only by the soft vibration of Sherlock’s phone in his pocket.

John doesn’t have to read the text over his shoulder to know it’s Mycroft. He’s tried not to pry – god knows he has his own family issues to deal with and holds no authority to be advising anyone else – but still. It had surprised him a little when Sherlock had confirmed he would not be spending Christmas with them. John was thankful of course. It would have meant a rather depressing holiday alone just him and Rosie, or worse, spent in the awkward company of a family trying to repair itself, in a cottage he had last visited when Mary was alive.

“No Mycroft this year?” Greg asks, and the look Molly throws him could have been comical in any other circumstance. She elbows him lightly in the ribs.

Realising his faux pas, Greg clenches his teeth and throws an apologetic look at John. John closes his eyes, ready for the fallout. Despite asking the inspector to care for his brother years previous, Sherlock’s relationship with him has been tense at best. Mycroft hasn’t sent a case their way for months, and though Sherlock doesn’t speak ill of him, the dark cloud of Eurus will linger for a good while yet. John knows this, so he doesn’t ask. He receives messages from the other Holmes every few weeks, just checking in. It feels like a betrayal somehow, so John only answers every other one, deleting them from his phone afterwards.

To his surprise, Sherlock huffs a small laugh and smiles.

“No, I thought I’d enjoy myself this year.”

Greg’s smile is half amusement half relief, and he attempts to redeem himself.

“Well, I’d like to propose a toast,” He announces, raising his glass. “To Sherlock and John, thanks for having us”

They all lift their glasses in tandem, Mrs Hudson’s clutching a hand to her heart with a look of adoration.

“It’s been so lovely – you boys” She gushes, eyes becoming glassy for a moment. “You wonderful boys”

“I think someone’s had quite enough wine for one night” Sherlock comments, but his eyes are warm and his smile genuine as he takes a drink.

John’s hip hurts and he realises it’s the sharp edge of the leather chair digging into bone. Somehow, he’s slid down to perch on the arm of it, his thigh brushing Sherlock’s shoulder. Everyone’s looking at them with dewy eyes and suddenly he feels a little exposed. As if sensing the walls of repressed emotions closing in around him, Sherlock shifts up in his chair a little and places a hand on John’s knee. It’s like the back of the car all over again, but instead of settling the tremor in his fingers, Sherlock is stilling the nerves of his heart. John breathes out slowly, and reminds himself of how good everything is, and how grateful he is for the undue patience of the man next to him.

They chat mindlessly and laugh and recount the ridiculous parts of their adventures over the last year, each of them finishing another glass of wine before they call it quits. Mrs Hudson’s eyes have closed in John’s chair, so Sherlock wakes her with a whisper, carefully helping her up to her feet and down the stairs. Molly gives John a bone crushing hug on their way out, Greg’s love for her still bold and obvious as he takes her hand and they leave.

John shakes off the cold from outside as he closes the front door behind them. He starts back up the stairs, but stops as he hears his own name drifting down the corridor from Mrs Hudson’s flat.

 _“- with John. You both look so happy together. You are happy, aren’t you Sherlock?”_ He hears, the woman’s voice slightly blurry with wine and emotion.

It’s a private conversation and he should really carry on up the stairs, but the temptation to hear the response is too much. They don’t really talk about it. The sentimental side. John tells himself he isn’t curious, isn’t burning to know just how Sherlock feels about him, but his body stood perfectly still at the bottom of the stairs tells a different story. He tries not to breathe.

 _“More than I could have imagined”_ Comes the reply, Sherlock’s voice so unusually quiet and plain that John has to strain to hear it. He feels a flush rise in his cheeks, bites his bottom lip to soften the hitch in his throat at those words. Perhaps it’s the wine, but John feels a little dizzy suddenly, as if every bit of blood in his body is rushing to his forehead. He tightens his hand on the bannister, and is just about to move his foot to the next stair when –

_“I just hope John is, too”_

His movement falters and the pressure on his temple threatens to burst. John wants to turn around, jump the steps beneath him and go tell Sherlock _yes, yes I am happy,_ but he can’t. Instead he’s frozen, sinking into the shadows with the knowledge that his utter devotion to Sherlock apparently isn’t obvious. And really, it isn’t. When John looks at it, plays their interactions back in his head, of course it isn’t obvious. They touch and kiss and spend hours lying next to each other, but John knows his attention wanes sometimes, eclipsed by misplaced guilt and a heaviness that comes with being a widow.

John has lingered too long and if not for the sound of Mrs Hudson’s creaky door closing, his quick ascension to the flat would have given him away. Luckily, Sherlock has also been drinking, so his keen senses perhaps aren’t as sharp as they otherwise would be. By the time the man has made it up the stairs, John is already back in his chair, pretending to drift off. And if Sherlock does notice the slight pink to his cheeks, or his tight breathing, he doesn’t say anything.

“Are you coming to bed, Doctor?”

An outstretched hand, and John peels his eyes open one at a time. They don’t often share a bed, not properly. There are the after sex hours, and the rare occasions John stays over during a case, but never have they purposefully spent a whole night in each other’s arms without an excuse. Yeah, no wonder Sherlock doesn’t realise his affection. It really is a miracle he’s sticking around at all, John thinks.

“Thought you’d never ask” John replies, groaning with the strain on his muscles as Sherlock pulls him up.

He doesn’t let go of Sherlock’s grip, pulls him towards his chest and catches his mouth briefly in a soft kiss. The corners of Sherlock’s lips upturn and John keeps their hands clasped, entwines their fingers and tugs him towards the kitchen. It’s bloody Christmas, he thinks yet again, and if there’s a time for letting his heart show then surely it’s now, saturated by spices and toasted from the embers of the fire.

It’s difficult not to push Sherlock onto the bed as soon as they’re in his room. John has been constantly surprised by his own need, sharp and consuming, a craving that has yet to dim. They’ve been making up for years after all, and when Sherlock’s body is there and willing it’s hard not to lose his mind. The things they’ve done to each other don’t even seem real sometimes. In the bright light of day when they’re at a crime scene or having dinner or taking Rosie to the park, it seems otherworldly that Sherlock lets him have so much, and that he gives so much of himself in return.

But it’s Sherlock who moves first, closing the door behind them and immediately pulling at the hem of John’s jumper. It’s a fucking relief to get the thing off, and John returns the favour, dragging his lips along the plane of Sherlock’s neck as he moves on to undoing his trousers. It’s all getting heated and quick, John’s back is against Sherlock’s wardrobe and it moves slightly with the force of his body as he’s pushed against it. Sherlock’s teeth are at his earlobe, biting gently, those hips rocking against John’s hardening cock.

“Sherlock – “

 _Wait,_ he wants to say. There are things John has to tell him, to explain, to remove that doubt he now knows rests in Sherlock’s head. But oh, now those fingers are around him, thumb swiping across his wet head and it’s truly maddening, the ease at which he comes undone.

John’s eyes close as Sherlock works on him, pressing kisses to the hollow of the collarbone he’s resting his forehead on. Sherlock is as clever in this as he is in everything else. It didn’t take long for the man to learn everything about John’s needs, those pressure points that make him lose all sense of control. It would almost be embarrassing if it were not so deliriously good.

John tries to touch Sherlock back, make his limbs move from where he’s trapped against the wardrobe. But Sherlock’s other hand has drifted to his buttocks and he’s digging his nails into a handful of flesh there, pulling his cheeks apart slightly, and it’s driving John fucking insane. He’ll have marks there tomorrow and the thought makes him groan into Sherlock’s neck.

When Sherlock is hungry for him like this, it almost causes John’s knees to buckle with the intensity of it. He can’t even string together a sentence when Sherlock is moaning against him, making noises someone of his usual decorum has no business making. Really, he should take every moment of it he can get, store them up because who knows when Sherlock will get bored of him.

And he will, John reckons. One day he will.

_So tell him, while there’s still a chance._

“Sherlock, stop” John manages, and for a few seconds wonders if he’s even been heard at all.

Then Sherlock looks at him, and his hand stops moving, fingers unclenching. He blinks and John watches sudden panic grip his face, a wash of trepidation crinkles his brow.

“Did I do something wrong?”

John lets out a breath that sounds more like a whimper.

“No – Jesus, no. Definitely not” He cups both hands to Sherlock’s face.

In the dull light from Sherlock’s table lamp he looks much younger. The dark contours his features just enough that John’s reminded of their more youthful days, running through the streets of London, being chased by shadows on the moors, getting caught in the cut of Sherlock’s cheekbones and the midnight of his curls.

He is striking, as always.

John kisses him, slow and open mouthed. He pours what he can into the softness of his lips against Sherlock’s, and hopes it conveys what his words cannot.

“I just want to take it slow, tonight” John breathes, tracing his thumb across Sherlock’s jawline.

The memory of that first time is vivid. If John concentrates, he can feel the cheap hotel linen against his skin. Smell the sweat and old cologne on Sherlock’s chest. Hear his voice, _look at me_ , as they moved together quietly. It was peaceful, and deep and sincere. And though John could easily give in to the ferocity of Sherlock’s insistent hands on him, as he so often does, he finds himself pushing that aside in favour of this. Tenderness, an expression of love rather than want.

It scares him, a little, to let those feelings grow inside his head again.

Sherlock looks at him and nods gently, moves his hands to the back of John’s neck instead, threading fingers through his greyed hair. They kiss and John feels his heart ache. Sherlock’s breathing is careful, shaking between them on every exhale, as if he is certain the next will be his last.

John steps out of his trousers and guides them to the bed. Sherlock’s sheets are more expensive than the hotel’s and feel silky against his legs as he sits on the edge of the mattress. His socks are still on and his hair’s tousled from Sherlock’s fingers, he definitely looks a fucking mess, but he doesn’t care. Both his hands go to Sherlock’s hips and he tugs them forwards gently. Their knees bump together and Sherlock places a hand on John’s shoulder to keep himself vertical.

“Take your trousers off” John tells him, running his thumbs along Sherlock’s waistband.

Sherlock swallows audibly, and though they’ve done this several times before, John can’t help but shiver at the skin being exposed inch by inch in front of him. Those eyes are on him, watching, as Sherlock slides down cotton and presents himself so openly.

John meets his gaze as he leans forward and places kisses along the valley of muscle below Sherlock’s pelvis, dragging his mouth slowly towards his shaft. John purposefully takes his time, first using only the very tip of his tongue, ghosting it so carefully along Sherlock’s length that he squeezes John’s shoulder, sending tiny sparks of pain along it. Then he flattens the muscle against the head and takes him into his mouth, just enough pressure and persistence to bring those filthy sounds from Sherlock’s throat.

His own cock brushes Sherlock’s thigh so he moves a hand from those hips to touch himself, matching his own steady rhythm. Sherlock says his name in such a low tone that John moans around him, lost in the touch of fingers in his hair once again, overwhelmed in the simultaneous sensation of his own hand and Sherlock, hot and heavy on his tongue.

“John – “ Sherlock warns, tugging at his hair sharply.

John persists, ignoring the fire at his scalp in favour of hearing Sherlock’s broken whimper as he finishes in his mouth. It’s not the most pleasant thing, but it’s filthy enough to send John over the edge, and he comes into his own hand, face pressed into Sherlock’s thigh.

For a few moments he simply remembers how to breathe, and then Sherlock tilts his chin up to kiss him deeply, tasting himself on John’s lips. It’s feels as significant as the blue moonlight of the hotel, but different entirely. Something about the pure good of the day, the strange peace between them, is poignant.

Sherlock leaves the room briefly and returns with a glass of water. John takes a few mouthfuls as it’s handed to him and nods his thanks, then lets his body fall back against the mattress. He’s so tired all of a sudden, and just wants the warmth of Sherlock next to him so he can fall asleep.

The man obliges, wordlessly pulling back the sheets until John moves and climbs beneath them too. They lie there in the quiet for a time, John trying to keep his eyes open because he doesn’t want to miss seeing Sherlock’s gently close.

“This is the bit where ordinary people would make wild and overly saccharine declarations” Sherlock says, words a little rough in the silence.

“But not us” John counters, trying to keep the sadness from his voice.

Sherlock hums, reaches up to brush away a strand of hair that’s fallen across John’s eye. They flutter closed at the touch, and John has to keep them shut for a moment in the darkness, lest they begin to water.

“No, not us.”

It’s not right, that word. Love doesn’t quite seem complicated enough to describe the force between them. They are, of course, in love. But they’re also out of it sometimes too, they’re fighting for it and losing it occasionally, battling to keep it alive and swimming in the heady danger of it. There are times when it’s so bright and singular that it’s blinding, and that in itself is too acute to be named so plainly.

“I do though, Sherlock.” John’s voice breaks as he lets the word exist unspoken between them. “I do.”

Sherlock inhales and presses his mouth tightly together. John watches as he closes his eyes for a short moment, and then lets the exhale part his lips. Sherlock is smiling, a look of what John recognises as relief on his face.

“Quite right” The smile broadens briefly and then softens. “Me, too.”

John wants to say something sarcastic or comical to break the moment, but he can’t quite bring himself to do it. The fear is claustrophobic but the desire to reassure Sherlock overrides his own anxiety. And they need this. After everything, all the broken trust and lies they’ve endured, the balance must be restored. Therapy is all well and good but there’s nothing like this, like Sherlock touching him and telling him it’s okay to feel vulnerable again.

One of them falls asleep first and John’s not sure who, but in the few times he awakens throughout the night and into the early morning, he watches Sherlock. The man who never closes his eyes, breathing peacefully and lost in another world entirely.

//

Rosie stirs as the sun rises and when John comes back from checking in on her, Sherlock is in his vacant spot on the bed, trapped in the space between consciousness.

“Merry Christmas” Sherlock says from the cocoon of sheets, voice drunk with sleep.

John hums in return as Sherlock’s eyes fall closed again. He stays there for a few seconds, in awe at his existence in this moment, where Sherlock is naked in bed and John’s the one who put him there.

Then he goes to make tea. He sorts the dishes from the previous night, wakes Rosie and makes her breakfast. Sherlock emerges and they spend the morning opening presents. They read the paper, have dinner with Mrs Hudson, and eat an entire tray of mince pies between them.

At the end of the evening, Sherlock invites him into his bed again and they’re both so knackered, John nearly falls asleep mid-sentence. Just before he does, he thinks he should probably move some stuff in. At least some clothes and a toothbrush. Maybe a few things for Rosie. Some books, too. He’s not sure why it’s taken so long.

Sherlock mumbles _yes, you should_ as if John had spoken aloud, and perhaps he did. Either way, it can wait until morning.

The lull of heat from Sherlock’s body is like a deep warm ocean surrounding him. John closes his eyes, and drifts off into it.


End file.
